


Next Right Thing

by junietuesday25



Series: BMQ Entries [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junietuesday25/pseuds/junietuesday25
Summary: Two weeks after Jeremy gets out of the hospital, Michael and Jeremy hang out after school. Conversations happen.
Relationships: Jeremy Heere & Michael Mell
Series: BMQ Entries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675906
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Next Right Thing

**Author's Note:**

> written for the be more quarantine challenge on tumblr! extra thanks to @Mophie here on ao3 for letting me keysmash about the title and giving me the perfect on on literally their first try
> 
> also title is from "the next right thing" from frozen 2 but i swear this isn't hardcore angst

Michael is a little surprised when Jeremy asks him if he wants to hang out after play rehearsal.

Yeah, the squip has been gone for about two weeks now, and yeah, that means Michael’s not Optic Nerve Blocked anymore, but he’s still sort of surprised that Jeremy’s diving headfirst back into repairing their relationship despite the fact he has a girlfriend and five other new friends to get to know. It’s not like Jeremy’s been _mean_ to him—far from it, he’s been nicer than ever—but mostly they’ve only talked IRL at school and when Michael picks him up from rehearsal (Mr. Reyes apparently still holds read-throughs and such even between shows, because Michael supposes he couldn’t survive without holding drama every day).

Anyway, Michael’s obviously happy about this new development, but again: surprised.

“We haven’t done anything just the two of us since, uh, before,” Jeremy says, when Michael enters the cafetorium and sits in the metal chair beside him. At first, Michael used to wait outside for Jeremy, passing the ten minutes after he arrived with music and mobile games, but one day he got curious and bored waiting, and ventured inside to watch the rehearsal’s end. He’s done it every day since. “Y’know. So maybe we can like, get lunch or something and go to your house? I mean, you don’t have to, but—”

“No, no, I want to,” Michael says quickly, watching Christine flounce around onstage, wearing a Little Red Riding Hood-esque cloak that looks surprisingly expensive, given that the theater program is under-funded enough that Mr. Reyes had to resort to zombifying Shakespeare. (Which turned out to be more realistic than Michael would have liked—the bruises from when he was battling the squip-zombies only just faded.) Christine’s singing something that sounds like a Little Red Riding Hood song, too, and somehow pulls an entire basket out from somewhere within her cloak’s folds. “Where d’you wanna go?”

Jeremy thinks for a moment, and Michael notices that he gets sidetracked, staring at Christine with lovestruck eyes as she sweeps around the stage, letting her cloak flutter around her. It’s kind of cute, honestly.

“Uh, there’s the diner down the street?” Jeremy says finally, shaking his head to clear it. “The one I never remember the name of.”

“Oh _yeah,_ ” Michael says, sitting back. “Now I’m craving pancakes, oh my god.”

Jeremy laughs.

* * *

Lunch goes well, at first. It’s not the same as when they used to come here, but it’s similar. The diner—called the [Greasy Spoon Café (“Here we serve breakfast all day! All of your tastebuds will shout hip hip hooray!”)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ol-JQgJBk4&list=PLf0jJJgdf3h7vvQkRIdPgretbn9yiHtgU&index=7&t=0s) despite it clearly being anything but a café—still feels as homely as ever, from the many times Michael and Jeremy had eaten here after a long summer day out and about town. It’s got this sort of sixties vibe, with its black-and-white checkered floor, sticky faux-leather seating and plastic tables, counter with barstools, and the genuine _jukebox_ that, in Michael’s opinion, is the definite highlight of this place. The food tastes amazing as always, too—Michael’s favorite is the pancakes, obviously, while Jeremy likes to mix it up more, but whether he’s getting soup or french toast or a burger or whatever, Jeremy always seems to enjoy it. Jeremy’s even said that he wants to learn how to make their soup so he can have it at home, although Jeremy literally can’t cook to save his life. The two of them are talking and laughing in their booth in the corner, the one they always get, and maybe things are different now, but Michael’s starting to believe it’s a good different.

Until…

“And _then_ I’m literally _this close_ to finishing the dungeon, but of course my weakling pidgey client has to go and get themselves—”

Michael trails off when he notices that Jeremy looks a little lost in thought, and seizes the opportunity to grab a fry off Jeremy’s plate, then a second, making sure not to steal any that are soaked in burger juice. Michael stifles laughter, but that fades when he realizes Jeremy hasn’t reacted whatsoever—not even a scrunched up glare aimed in Michael’s direction.

“Jeremy? Earth to Jeremy?”

Michael waves a hand in front of Jeremy’s face. Jeremy jolts out of his stupor.

“Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay?” Michael asks, because he’s sure that wasn’t a regular zoning-out. Jeremy looked too afraid when he came out of it, instead of just the normal momentarily-embarrassed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeremy says, picking at his lip with his teeth, a tell for when he’s upset. “You were talking about your mission?”

“Jeremy,” Michael says, and doesn’t know how to continue. Before he would’ve just kept on pushing until Jeremy gave in and told him what was wrong, but maybe Michael doesn’t have that privilege anymore. Maybe he should just leave it. But Jeremy seems so shaken…

“Okay,” Jeremy says decisively, breaking the silence. Michael looks at him. “But promise not to freak.”

Well, now Michael’s certainly even more concerned.

“Promise,” Michael says, but it twists up closer to a question.

Jeremy seems to steel himself. Finally, he says, “…It’s my squip.”

“What?” Michael yelps, but then remembers his promise and tries to tone himself down. “But—but the Mountain Dew Red—it’s—”

“No, yeah, it’s gone!” says Jeremy quickly. “Uh. Mostly?”

“Mostly?” says Michael, wrestling down the hysteria that wants to come out in his tone. “ _Mostly?_ How—” He takes a deep breath. He’s really not helping by panicking. “Like, how much?”

“Only a little!” Jeremy tries to reassure, but Michael’s not buying it. “Like, it, um, it talks sometimes, but that’s it…”

“Was it—was it talking to you?” Michael says, keenly aware of the other people talking and eating at the tables around them. They’re not being especially loud, but Michael knows how easy it is to eavesdrop (not from his own experience—Jeremy likes to people-watch, or, well, people-listen. Both?).

“Yeah, but it—it wasn’t saying anything too bad,” Jeremy says. “Usually it just says stupid stuff like ‘You’re ugly!’ or ‘Everyone hates you!’. It’s only really horrible once in a while…”

Michael wishes he could reach into Jeremy’s brain and rip that squip out of him himself. Or, well, maybe he’d have someone else do it…he’s not exactly a trained neurosurgeon…

Michael, focus.

“That’s still really bad,” Michael says, as Jeremy looks down to pick at his fries. 

Jeremy’s just been _living_ with this voice in his head berating him all the time? That must be awful, just trying to go about your day and having someone tell you that you’re gross and annoying all the time, but Jeremy’s just been ignoring it to the point where Michael hadn’t even noticed.

Michael wracks his brain for what else to say. “I have another bottle of Mountain Dew Red if you need it…”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Jeremy says quickly. “I can deal with it. It’s uncreative, anyway, I can just ignore it. And we might need the Mountain Dew for something worse, it’s not like it’s discontinued for nothing, I can’t just go gulping down bottles of the stuff whenever it shows its face—er, voice.”

“I don’t care,” says Michael, but Jeremy has a point. “At least a sip. We’re going to my house anyway.”

“Fine,” Jeremy relents. “But let’s finish our food first. My dad’s giving me an actual fixed allowance now and I’m too broke to waste anything.”

Michael takes it as a win.


End file.
